Chemicals that are toxic or tend to explode are regulated. Chemicals that do both are highly regulated. But there were loop holes. I had once used three ounces of hydrochloric acid to unstop some plumping. The offending blockage turned out to be the neighbor’s pet bird that had died and it had caused an awful stench to invade both apartments, but the drains had been running free and clear in less than five minutes.
Like my three ounces of hydrochloric acid drain cleaner, anyone that could pass a background check could buy small amounts. Small amounts and a lot of patience could lead to large amounts without ever raising a red flag. It was these determined buyers, with the patience of a saint, that did the most damage.
However, earlier bombs had included gunpowder and sulfuric acid. This was an interesting mix. One that wouldn’t immediately be thought of because sulfuric acid poured on gunpowder wouldn’t actually cause an explosion. It might cause some smoke as the acid ate through the gunpowder, but that was about it. To know the catalyst that gave the bomb its oomph took special knowledge and our bomber had it. It led me to believe that he could make a bomb out of just about anything.
My bomb making skills were minimal. I could blow up two-liter bottles with baking soda or bathroom cleaner, but those weren’t serious explosions. I found myself trying not to end up on a Homeland Security watch list as I attempted to think of things that created massive, violent explosions.
Xylene was just a start to the endless chemicals that were flammable, explosive and toxic. There were chemicals easier to get that were flammable, but not explosive. There were also ones that were explosive but not terribly flammable. Flames required fuel. Explosions required extremely hot temperatures in a short amount of time, usually caused by the buildup of flammable gasses. Hell, a small explosion could be created from a fluorescent lighting tube, as long as the gas could be kept inside.
This caused my mind to run in circles. It moved from chemical to chemical and explosive properties to flammable properties. It literally felt like it was chasing its own tail. I didn’t know how to stop this circular logic that was getting me nowhere. A Google search was definitely out of the question, I was probably already on a watch list, no need to add my name to another. However, Xavier was the closest we had to a chemist and his chemistry was rustier than my own.
Of course, this didn’t stop him from sitting in the make shift conference room with his feet up on the table, eating a Jimmy John’s sub and reminding me that dynamite would probably be easier to get than anything I had suggested. Unfortunately for him, when my brain did get tired of chasing itself, it grabbed onto the image of his body dissolving in a vat of hydrochloric acid. This image was comical, not disturbing. It was framed in low-budget filming quality and black and white. I knew the image came from House on Haunted Hill, starring the amazing Vincent Price. My fantasies about death were always comical, ripped off from some film or worse, a cartoon. I had once pictured Michael doing a Wile E. Coyote impersonation off a cliff, complete with sign and sound effects. They were also reserved for my nearest and dearest when they were annoying me. I never had those thoughts about regular people or even the killers we chased.
My conversation with Malachi came back to me. Lucas had said if I changed, we’d have a problem. I understood the meaning. If my strange fantasies about my nearest and dearest ever became serious fantasies about those we chased, I would become a liability to the team and myself.
“What are you imagining me doing?” Xavier crunched lettuce and bread as he spoke. I had confided once to him and Lucas about my death images. I had been told it was perfectly normal. We all occasionally had thoughts about killing annoying people.
“House on Haunted Hill,” I told him. “The giant vat in the basement where the wife takes her final plunge.”
“Great movie,” Xavier said. “Am I doing the pushing or the falling?”
“The falling,” the sentence had an implied “duh” at the end of it.
“Do you know what I’m thinking about?” Xavier asked.
“Nope,” I answered.
“If the bullet had gone just a fraction to the left or the right, I’d be dead. If it had gone up or down, I’d be dead. I’m not dead. So why am I not dead and our fair queen lost her face?”
“You have survivor’s guilt from an unrelated incident?” The puzzlement was evident in my voice.
“No,” Xavier shook his head. “It isn’t survivor’s guilt. It’s medical logic. The same caliber bullet was used, but the results were different. Our sniper packed his own load and he used more gunpowder. Also, he had to doctor the gun and the jacket of the bullet. He’s proficient with guns. He isn’t just your average hunter gone mad.”
“Does that help catch our bomber?”
“Probably not, unless it was a test run for our bomber. Maybe he intends to take him out in spectacular fashion.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know about the bomber targeting this fair.”
“Maybe not,” Xavier agreed. “However, if he hasn’t figured it out, he isn’t as smart as we think. That works in our favor. We should make sure the fair queen doesn’t show up, just in case.”
“How do you stop a fair queen from showing up at the fair?” I asked him.
“Tell her she’ll get her face blown off,” Xavier answered.
“Using that logic, the fairs should be packing up and heading somewhere else for the season. Someone is blowing them up, but they continue to go on and they continue to draw thousands of people. That seems illogical.”
“It is illogical. Fairs make people forget their problems, like your fan the other night. She was having the time of her life and she got to meet you. Any thoughts of mad bombers blowing the place off the map were the furthest thing from her mind and obviously, the minds of her guardians. They didn’t seem all that off-put to be at the fair. The mother showed signs of hesitation because she thought we might be working, but the hesitation went away with your lame story. It wasn’t a good story, it wasn’t even a believable story. She accepted it because she wanted to believe it.”
“I like craft fairs,” I told him.
“Yes, but not in the middle of the evening at a fair twenty minutes away from a crime scene.”
“You have me there,” I agreed. “So, ignoring our sniper for a few minutes, because honestly, he is definitely not the biggest fish, let’s talk bombers.”
“We’ve been talking bombers. We discovered you might have the knowledge, but not the practical know-how to create one. We’ve also discovered that bombings aren’t your thing. Not up close and personal enough for you and there’s some underlying sense of righteousness with bombings.”
“Righteousness.” The word left a bad taste in my mouth. It was a great excuse for doing evil things. Hitler had felt righteous and he had inspired followers to believe in that righteousness. “So, why is he different than a terrorist?”
“Because terrorists want to instill fear. It is all about the terror, not the act. This guy, it’s about the act. He’s killing something intangible.”
“The people are just collateral damage,” I added.
“Yes,” Xavier said.
“He’s killing symbols of happiness and possibly childhood. Or an even deeper emotion, joy.”
“So, stop thinking about him like a bomber and think of him as a serial killer. Just because people aren’t his primary goal, doesn’t mean he isn’t a serial killer in mass murderer skin.”
“Ok, let me wrap my head around something,” I said to Xavier. “You have become a shrink in the last hour, been terribly unhelpful in your chemistry knowledge and didn’t even offer me a bite of your sandwich, but I’m the one with the mental block.”
“Something like that,” Xavier said. “Did you want a sandwich?”
“No, I didn’t want a sandwich,” I told him. That wasn’t true, I did want a sandwich and a Jimmy John’s sandwich would have been great. However, I had been so wrapped up inside my own mind that I had missed the order being placed and was now beginning to suffer pangs of hunger as a result.
“Pity,” Xavier pulled a bag out from under the table and set it in front of him. “I don’t have room for two sandwiches.”
“You are a jerk.” I took the bag and unwrapped the sandwich. It was perfect. Exactly what I would have ordered, no one did roast beef quite like Jimmy John’s.
“Maybe once you have food, you’ll stop thinking like a terrorist.”
“How do terrorists think?” I asked, taking the first bite.
“I don’t know, I’m not a terrorist, but you aren’t doing very well thinking like our mass murderer, so I can only assume you are working on the other end of the spectrum.”
“You might be right, I might be thinking too much Unabomber and not enough killer,” I answered. “You know, serial killers choose the manner in which they kill because it fulfills a need. Maybe our bomber is as well. Maybe he’s a bomber because it fulfills some need, like a guy who needs to rape and beat his victims to death.”
“Now, you are thinking like Aislinn Cain and not some flighty normal woman who can’t see past the tip of her nose.”
“And you are still a jerk,” I answered. “When did you become the shrink anyway? Where’s Lucas?”
“Enjoying a long, hot bath. He does that from time to time.” I wasn’t going to picture Lucas in a bathtub, so I focused very hard on my sandwich. “I know, it kills my appetite as well.” Xavier let out his madman giggle and I ate my sandwich while thinking about blood and gore. It was the less gruesome image.